


Checkup

by extension_cord



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Medical Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 01:39:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extension_cord/pseuds/extension_cord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MTMTE: Drift receives an exam from Ratchet. And then it becomes porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Checkup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homosindisguise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosindisguise/gifts).



> haha wow
> 
> Disclaimer — nothing recognizable belongs to me!
> 
> Enjoy :B

* * *

"Thus far, everything looks good. Normal energy yield from your spark. Minimal residue in your fuel tank. Fuel pump operating at maximum efficiency. Motor relays all functioning within their top percentile. Which means," and Ratchet glanced up at last from his datapad, "that we're left with the final segment of this examination."

Drift frowned. "Which is?"

"You ever had a physical before, kid?"

"The last I had was at Crystal City and I wasn't awake for it."

Ratchet stepped away from the medical slab, turning to the cabinet in the private examination room. He removed several implements, then faced his patient once again. "Pelvic exam. Everyone's favorite."

The third-in-command just shrugged. "Oh, okay. Sure."

It wasn't the reaction that Ratchet had expected. When it came to physicals, nearly all of his patients would grumble and gripe over this last step — and he didn't blame them, because why would _anyone_ want a medic rummaging around inside their more intimate areas? — but it did get tiresome, and for that reason, he'd foisted most of the standard exams on First Aid and Ambulon. But Drift was the ship's third-in-command, and that title garnered the attention of the chief medical officer. Ratchet entered a series of commands into the console beside the slab, and two attachments unfolded from underneath, locking into position at the foot of the table. "Get your feet up in the stirrups and we'll try to make this quick as possible."

Drift complied, humming pleasantly, arms crossed behind his head. "Shall I open up for you, or —"

"No," Ratchet grumbled. "I'll need to do — open it manually. Make sure everything's in order." Stay professional, he told himself. It was hard to do when Drifts thighs were spread before him, ankles restrained, white pelvic armor gleaming in the bright, sterile light of the medibay. "And — oh, a few questions first. Standard medical procedure. Nothing leaves this room, I promise."

"Shoot away."

Ratchet coughed static. He forced his optics back to the datapad in his grasp, then blanched at the inquiries he was required, by profession, to ask. It'd never been this hard before, so why now? He coughed again. "Are you —" Ratchet cringed internally, "— active? Sexually active, that is."

A shrug. "Not really."

"Not really." Ratchet wasn't sure whether he should be surprised or incredulous. "Define 'not really.'"

"Not for a while," Drift amended. He was staring right at Ratchet, optics burning a hole through the datapad barrier, and Ratchet knew it. "I haven't _been_ with anyone since before we left Cybertron, if that's what you're asking."

Ratchet found that rather hard to believe, but he bit his tongue. Rumors weren't fact, and they never were, but that didn't keep the gossip of the ship from cementing itself into his judgment of his crewmates, especially Drift. "Prior partners in the last six months?"

The third-in-command flinched. "Is that really necessary?"

"As I said, this is confidential, Drift. Nothing leaves this room."

Drift sagged. "Perceptor. Uh, Rodimus, once. Before that, I don't know —"

"That'll do," Ratchet said, entering the information into his datapad. "Two more questions, then we do the exam and you're out of here. Do you self-service?"

"Yeah."

Ratchet tried his very best not to imagine the third-in-command positioned much like he was now: thighs spread, head thrown back, digits knuckle-deep in his open port —

"Doc?"

The CMO reset his vocalizer. "Uh. Lastly, have you noticed anything unusual? Any discomfort or problems?"

Drift shook his head. "Don't think so."

"Good." Ratchet set the datapad aside, exchanging it for a small speculum, over which he began to smear a thin layer of lubricant. "I recommend you mute your nervecircuits from the waist down. It'll lessen any unwanted sensation."

The third-in-command nodded, then stared at the ceiling. "Done. Does this involve examining — um. My other equipment too, or —?"

"Not for this checkup, no." Ratchet sighed, then extended a hand, trying to push all non-professional thoughts from his mind. This was an _examination_ , he had to remind himself, and he chided his processor for even _daring_ to let such lecherous inclinations enter his consciousness. His forged digits ran over white pelvic armor until they found the manual catch for Drift's port cover, and with clinical precision, he activated a set of pressure points that made the panel slide away. "You said you dampened your nervecircuits, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Alright." And that word wasn't spoken so much for Drift as it was for Ratchet himself, because the sight before him was —

 _Concentrate_.

"You may still feel some discomfort," Ratchet murmured, and slowly he eased the speculum into place, pushing until the implement's closed blades were snug within his patient's port. Drift remained motionless, and even as Ratchet gradually opened the blades, the third-in-command didn't so much as flinch. That was good; the same certainly could not be said of many of his crewmates. When the port walls were dilated wide enough, Ratchet locked the speculum into place. "Everything alright?"

"Just fine."

"Good." Ratchet got to work. The tip of his forefinger opened to reveal a nanolamp, and he retrieved a small scope, which he carefully pressed into the opening. There wasn't much to see: the interior of the port was clean, free of debris and residue, absent of any trauma. Ratchet withdrew the instrument and set it aside. "Appears to be healthy. I'll just need to make sure everything's in working order. Okay?"

Drift nodded.

The nanolamp folded away; Ratchet sighed, then extended one hand, three digits slipping into the port with ease. Its walls weren't lubricated, which was to be expected, and that was where a doctor's expertise came into play. A precise swipe of his forefinger triggered a specific sensor, and though Drift couldn't feel it with his muted nervecircuits, the touch produced the desired effect: warm lubricant exuded from the port walls, sliding hotly over his digits. Ratchet bit back a groan, then moved on to the next sensor. Striking it sent a group of calipers into a tight spasm — again, the desired response, but Ratchet couldn't ignore the slick pull on his fingers. His cooling system threatened to come online, but the CMO denied its request. _Stay professional_. "Everything alright?"

"Uh-huh. You almost done in there?" Drift sounded vaguely bored. Ratchet found himself to be relieved by that fact.

"One last test and then you can pack up." Ratchet located a final sensory node; he tapped it, and the port walls clutched his fingers, hard. Again, it was the desired response — was it _ever_. Ratchet withdrew his digits, then removed the speculum. "Clean up and close up. Everything checks out."

"Your bedside manner is inspirational, doc," Drift said with a grin, pulling his ankles from the stirrups then collecting the rag that was offered to him. The third-in-command wiped himself down — Ratchet tried not to watch the cloth as it traveled between those striking thighs — and then with a quiet hiss, Drift's port cover snapped back into place. "Am I free to go?"

"Indeed," Ratchet grated. "I'll send you a report within the hour."

Drift slid off the medical slab, stretched his legs, and flashed the CMO a small smile. "Thanks for the exam. I'll be at Swerve's later if you want to chat over drinks." And then he was gone, the door whisking shut behind him.

Ratchet cursed. Right, _drinks_. Because that was the first thing he wanted to do after shoving his fingers up his patient's port. He glanced to the closed door, then back to his hands, one of which still had lubricant smeared over the digits. _Oh, hell_. Ratchet eased himself onto the medical slab, chest to the ceiling and legs spread. His cooling fans finally powered on, producing a low whir — a sound which steadily crescendoed as the CMO ran his hands across his frame. He arrived at the junction of his thighs, and at the touch his interface paneling snapped aside. Ratchet watched his spike jump to attention, then gripped it tightly — and then hesitated.

This was unprofessional. Undeniably so. He should be cleaning up the examination room and filing a medical summary and _definitely not be thinking of the wet clench of Drift's port_ —

Ratchet shuttered his optics then began to pump along the hot shaft of his spike, hips jerking up into the touch. He could do this quickly, get rid of the charge, and forget about everything that had led up to this point. And maybe then he _would_ have a drink with Drift, because why the hell not? The thought of the third-in-command made his spark surge within its casing, and he tugged his spike harder, thumbing the tip, the memory of those twitching calipers still fresh in his mind.

He'd brought his other hand to his mouth, glossa lapping at the foreign lubricant on his fingers, when he heard the door to the examination room slide open. "Sorry, I forgot my sw—"

 _Frag._ Ratchet jumped, vision rebooting, gaze immediately meeting Drift's. "Uh —"

The third-in-command's look of shock slowly morphed into a sly grin, and he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed casually over his chest. His optics darted from Ratchet's spike — which his hand was still very much wrapped around — to the digits in the CMO's mouth. "Is this standard medical procedure, too?"

Ratchet pulled his hands away, shame and irritation temporarily crowding away the lust pulsing through his system. "Get your damn swords and leave."

"I'm not so sure I will," Drift purred. He pushed himself away from the doorframe and padded into the examination room, entrance whisking shut behind him. "Because it looks to me like you're in need of some medical attention."

Ratchet couldn't keep himself from cringing. Propping himself up on his elbows, he gave Drift his very best glare. It didn't seem to deter the former Decepticon, who was rapidly closing in on him, hips a playful sway. "Drift, at the risk of compromising our professional relationship, I really don't think this is a good idea —"

Drift scoffed. "Professional? It ceased to be professional the minute you started jerking it in here. Or — Primus, don't tell me giving a standard _pelvic exam_ revs your engines?"

"Only for you," Ratchet murmured, and he couldn't believe the words as they left his mouth. "Forget it, kid. Grab your swords and go."

"How about this," Drift said, and he sidled closer, placing his hands on Ratchet's spread thighs, "this is confidential. It doesn't leave the room."

"Dammit, Drift."

The third-in-command smirked. "Unless you _want_ it to leave the room, which in that case, I'll happily repeat my invitation for drinks at Swerve's."

Ratchet couldn't argue with that. His shame and embarrassment subsided, only to be replaced with the burning lust he'd felt earlier — amplified, now, by Drift's presence and touch. He settled back onto the medical slab, then whined as the other's hands glided up his thighs, digits wrapping around the girth of his spike.

"Why me?" Drift asked, warm hands pumping, even as he climbed onto the slab, knees on either side of Ratchet's legs. "I was — well, I was under the impression you really couldn't tolerate me."

"Things change." Ratchet heard Drift's port cover slide away, now a familiar sound, and he failed to stifle a moan as the third-in-command lowered himself onto his spike. That, too, was a familiar feeling, though Drift's arousal made it entirely better. Ratchet sighed contentedly, then felt his hands move over Drift's body. His digits glided over those curvy thighs, spread so delightfully over his pelvic span, then settled on the ex-Decepticon's hips. "Things — change."

Drift grinned. "You're telling me." Slowly he worked himself into a rhythm, riding Ratchet's spike like it was his job, and Ratchet, for his part, was in what he'd heard the humans refer to as _heaven_. Oh, it had felt nice around his fingers when he'd done the exam, but now? The internal components of Drift's port rippled around him, sucking his spike in deeper, even as the third-in-command lifted himself skyward before sinking back down. Drift's smile had long ago been exchanged with a look of concentration, dentae biting his lower lip, optics dimmed, faceplates flushed.

Ratchet offlined his optics. "That's — yeah. You're good, kid."

Drift didn't respond, and instead worked himself faster, small breathy gasps escaping his throat. The clatter of their armor was loud enough to drown out the wet noises of their interface, and before long, Drift's fans roared to life. Ratchet felt his hips bucking upward, thrusting to meet the other's movements, fingers tightening on his lithe waist. Drift's port clutched him, hard; Ratchet felt hot lubricant spatter over his pelvic span and that was what drove him over the edge. The CMO overloaded with a shout, electromagnetic field flaring wildly. Drift reached his climax almost simultaneously, sinking to the hilt, then twitching as wave after wave of pleasure moved through his body.

Ratchet switched on his vision just in time to see Drift throw his head back in a silent scream, optics overbright and neck cables taught.

It was a beautiful sight.

Drift slumped forward, still seated on Ratchet's spike, vents heaving as his fans tried desperately to cool his overheated frame. His port gave one final spasm, and Ratchet, before he could stop himself, pulled the third-in-command into a tight embrace. "No follow-up appointment is needed," he rasped, lust still heady in his systems. "Everything is in working order. And unless you've got any objections, I've got better ideas for later, and they don't involve going out in public."

Ratchet was rewarded with a grin and then, perhaps even better than everything that had led up to this moment, a forceful kiss on his lips. "No objections to speak of, doctor."

* * *

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :B


End file.
